


Snowdrop

by Banbury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banbury/pseuds/Banbury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times when you want some peace regardless the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowdrop

**Author's Note:**

> The fic was written for hp_darkfest in 2008.  
> Prompt: "Courage is not the towering oak that sees storms come and go; it is the fragile blossom that opens in the snow." -- Alice M. Swaim  
>  _Snowdrop – transformed from a snowflake by an angel to comfort Adam and Eve after their expulsion from Eden; indicates hope or consolation._  
>  Many thanks to my wonderful betas – romaine24 (ineffably_roma) and janedavitt

The first drops of blood on the snow made him dizzy and lightheaded every time. Not lightheaded as being close to the seizure, but with some sort of relief at putting things in order at last.

Poppy red stains made an intricate pattern on the pristine snow lying on the cold granite of the headstone – not quite a circle or an oval; more like a parody of a heart shape. He watched in fascination as each drop formed on the thin line cut on his wrist, slid down under the weight of gravity, and fell toward the gravestone.

He fought to stay still. The weight on his shoulders bent him down, forced him to slide to his knees, to stretch before the frozen marble angel looking down. The weight that had nothing to do with the present, or something from the past; this weight seemed to gather on his shoulders during the recent, peaceful years even more than it had during the difficult wartime years.

His weary body longed just to do it. To lie down on the snow and weep for all the souls that lost their innocence because of him, for all who'd died because of him, for all the hands that had killed for him. However, he wasn’t sure he’d have done it differently if he’d had the choice. That was the ugliest truth he knew about himself and that was why he had to go through the ritual to the very end.

It was the seventh day.

The first day of snow – the last day of the ceremony.

For the first time in his long, long life, he didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t predict what he’d hold in his hands in the end – sanity, madness or hope. For the first time in his long, long life, he didn’t want to give a damn about other people's wishes or hopes. He wanted to find a peace for himself. Just himself. Just for now.

To forget all the trusting eyes, all the waiting eyes, all these eyes that had closed and never opened again. To forget all the schemes and plans, of armies, allies, and enemies. Just to forget.

He shivered and cut the second line parallel to the first one. Thin, warm smoke rose from the bloodstains. He watched as fresh drops landed on the older ones and the smoke became thicker, more visible. He drew more lines and a newly formed fog began to envelop his legs, snuggling up to his knees.

He felt strangely detached from himself, like he was looking at himself from the outside. It was not a pleasant feeling. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, wash and sand it before putting it back on. He felt dirty inside, as if some strange grime of thoughts and intentions covered him.

He shivered and finally slid down on his knees. The stone under his hands felt unpleasantly hot. He wondered if it might be a side effect of the ritual, but it was bearable for now.  
Each word of the chanting seemed heavier than the previous. Snowflakes bumped his skin with the regularity of hail. Each sound appeared to hang in the air right before his eyes, slightly glowing with a deadly green light. He knew he had to hurry in order to stay sane till the end of all it.

He raised his eyes to the name on the stone. No one familiar. In fact he wasn’t sure he could make any sense of the letters. The description of the ceremony ordered him to find the resting place of the innocent one. He was somewhat ashamed that he had a choice of whom to think as the innocent victim to ensure this condition. He tried to tell himself that he was not to be solely blamed for it, but each time he looked himself in the eyes in the mirror, all he could see was the age lines on his face bought by somebody else’s life.

He felt the skin on his face become tight, as if it belonged to somebody else. His hands jerked up almost by themselves and touched his cheeks with trepidation. His face felt unfamiliar under his fingers – smooth young skin, slightly turned up nose, a mole near the mouth. He couldn’t identify this face without looking at it, but it wasn’t his.

The next moment, he felt the face dissolve in the crisp, cold air and another one instantly took its place. He was afraid to touch it, but it wasn’t necessary because the next moment this face dissolved too and yet another appeared.

He sat on his knees for what felt hours, as his own face was replaced by others and others and others. The dissolved faces joined the fog that gradually reached his waist, then his underarms, and now gently swayed somewhere near his nose.

He heard unintelligible voices rising from the depth of the fog, murmuring, shouting, asking for something. He tried to make the words out, but it was impossible, because there were so many of them that they blocked each other.

He lost himself in that murmur for awhile, before he realized that it'd changed somehow. The voices began to chant in unison. It was still quite difficult to understand, but it sounded calmer. More like an offer than a question or a demand.

He knew it was very important to understand the voices, but the sound was so thick it was still impossible to make out the words. He shivered, gulped in a breath, and sank deeper in the fog.

 _From the depths of despair the snowdrop blossom out…_

He was fascinated with the voices. They sounded strangely familiar, though he couldn’t recognize one from another. Their sound felt like a gentle reassuring touch on his skin. Hopeful touch.

Suddenly his skin felt like his own. The swirling fog became the cloud of snowflakes that slowly flittered downcast. The marble under his knees became blissfully cold, like it should’ve been from the beginning.

He couldn’t understand what had happened – he'd found no revelations, no closure; the pressure on his shoulders felt as heavy as always. But there was something different in this heaviness. There was something different in the air around – the silence and stillness weren’t threatening. The world around seemed as demanding as before.

But now he could bear the heaviness, he could meet the demands… He became himself again.  
Albus Dumbledore. Magician extraordinaire. The wall between the good and the evil.

He rested on his hands, gathering the strength to rise from his knees, and looked down.

The bloodstain on the snow looked very strange. He lightly touched it with his finger and realized that it was no longer the blot. It was a small patch of bloody-white flowers.

They began to bloom under his touch, and from the center of each flower a face looked at him. The face of the boy with the round glasses and lightning bolt scar...

… magician extraordinaire. The foundation for the wall between the good and the evil…


End file.
